


All Hail the Heartbreakers

by beetle



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: M/M, Post-Chosen, post-nfa
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-20
Updated: 2013-05-20
Packaged: 2017-12-12 10:19:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/810454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A sire and his childe in L.A. . . . but it's not all happily ever after.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Hail the Heartbreakers

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I didn't. I wouldn't.  
> Notes/Spoilers/Warnings: Set Post-NFA by three years, mild spoiler-age, largely inspired by "All Hail The Heartbreakers", by Spill Canvas.

In the aftermath of the attack, to say that Spike's frazzled—-tired, and not quite in control of his faculties is to understate matters greatly.  
  
All he knows is that he has to get them somewhere safe, somewhere the dead can be alone with the dead.   
  
It's this reason--and this reason alone--that after Xander gurgles out his last, frightened breath, Spike decides that there's no better place to lay them both to rest than the  _Hyperion_.  
  


*

  
  
There's no corpse quite like that of an abandoned hotel.  
  
And this corpse, an austere, art deco monstrosity, is in a class by itself. In it's fusty, looming silence, the voices of the dead clamor here, fight for the ears of any who'll listen.  
  
But Spike's got plenty dead of his own, thanks, and doesn't need to borrow anyone else's.  
  
He sets Xander down for a few moments, only—-reluctantly, and on one of the dusty lobby sofas-—to barricade the doors with anything that's moveable, anything that he can lift. Though he rather doubts there's anything after them, anymore, his instinct screams at him to do this.   
  
His rational mind, however, insists that no one will even notice either of them've disappeared and come looking before the better part of a week is out.  
  
And by then, everything'll be resolved, for good, or for ill.  
  
The milky-pale moonlight shines in through the holes, and through the panes that still have glass in them. It washes out Xander's tan and, at the same time, gives his face the look of a living man in the arms of a pleasant slumber.  
  
The smears of blood on his face could be nothing more sinister than smudges of ink—-or dirt, the late William Roe and later Xander Harris have few or no hobbies in common, let alone  _that_  one.  
  
"You'll understand," Spike whispers, brushing Xander's hair back from his face. It's tacky with drying blood and purple mud. "Wasn't anything else I  _could_  do, but let you slip away. . . ."  
  
Xander doesn't so much as stir under Spike's touch. Now is too soon for something that in all probability will never happen.  
  
Spike trails his fingers down Xander's cold face, over the patch-—that ever-present reminder of the fact that no matter how big and bad he is, occasionally, there's some _thing_  that's bigger and badder—-down his cheek and jaw, to the wound.  
  
It's closed, now, a seamed and bloodless line across Xander's throat. The skin is still new, soft, but it's healed. _Healing_.  
  
 _Doesn't mean anything,_  Spike tells himself sternly.  _He got the lion's share of my blood, but that doesn't mean bugger-all if_ he's _not strong enough to rise. If he can't claw his way back from wherever he is._  
  
He scoops up Xander's body, ignoring the hollow, leaden weight of it.   
  
Imagining how fearless and strong his first childe will be, how happy they'll both be once the initial unpleasantness is over, Spike let's his nose lead them to the room that used to be Angel's.  
  
Xander  _will_  wake up. He has to.  
  


*

  
  
Xander's clothes are a loss: torn, and filthy with mud and blood.  
  
Spike simply rips them off and tosses the tatters outside the room. If-- _when_  Xander wakes, he'll just have to suffer Angel's cast-offs till they can get back to his apartment.  
  
"Be a treat to see you in something besides workshirts and jeans, mate," Spike says wistfully, pulling the coverlet up and tucking Xander in, much he used to do with Dru, and his own mother used to do with him. "Love to see you all done up in silk and leather. . . ."  
  
It then occurs to him that a Xander who'd be comfortable dressing so like Angelus probably wouldn't be Xander at all. It'd sound like Xander, even snark like Xander, but it wouldn't  _be Xander_.  
  
But wouldn't a not-quite-Xander be better than no Xander at all?  
  
Spike turns away from the body and goes over to the window. Western exposure, but there's orange-pink creeping in from the east, setting fire to the night sky.  
  
"I promise." Spike takes hold of the heavy drapes. The bloody dawn-light's already making his eyes water. "If what comes back isn't you, but just some demon masquerading as you, I'll . . . I'll dust it before your girls find out. Before it can hurt anyone you love."  
  
It's the only promise Spike can make now that'd be worth a damn to Xander . . . he only hopes that, should the need arise, he's got the strength to keep it.  
  
He shuts the drapes tightly against the dawn, makes his way back over to the bed and collapses on the floor next to it.  
  
Closes his eyes, and doesn't open them again for seventy hours.


End file.
